


A Family Matter

by TheEagleGirl



Series: Westeros AU [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Cersei is an only child, F/M, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, What-If, as in, totally an alternate universe, where Cersei married Ned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: In which Arya Stark gets a taste of the game of thrones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in my AU universe where Cersei was the only child if Tywin Lannister, and thus led a different life. She married Ned Stark instead of Robert Baratheon, and if you don't know this, I'd recommend you read the previous works in this series. 
> 
> This fic is sort of the set-up for the next story, which will be multi-chaptered and delve into the conflict that plays out between the North and South. Instead of Cersei as the narrator, as she has been for the past three installments, Arya is. I don't often write from Arya's POV, so it was good practice. Also, because of the new POV, Cersei isn't as heavily featured, and neither is her political look at Westeros unless she is talking to Arya. It might be a jarring change, but rest assured: Cersei's POV will be back in the next story!
> 
> Arya is 14 here, and Jon, Robb and Joanna are 17. Myrcella and Bran are 11, and Rickon is 7.

Arya hasn’t seen Joanna in _years_. They write, sometimes, when the mood strikes, and lately Joanna has mentioned dress fittings and Prince Steffon more in her letters, but Arya hadn’t really thought much of it. Joanna’s been betrothed to Steffon for _ages_ , really. It only seems natural that Joanna would write about him more now that she’s seven and ten, thinking about _boys_ and such. Arya doesn’t care much for boys, beyond how willing they are to fight with her. That’s why Jon is her favorite.

“Married?” she echoes to him, when he finds her deep in the Godswood. “Joanna? That’s so…it’s _strange_ , is all.”

Jon sits at her side and stretches out his legs besides hers. Arya had been dismayed to realize she’d never be as tall as Joanna was getting, or little Cella, who was only eleven and nearly Arya’s height. Jon had pointed out that being smaller meant that she could hide better, and Arya had spent the next five days hiding from Robb with Jon and popping out to scare him.

“Why’s it so strange?” Jon asks, nudging her with his shoulder. “Jo’s my age. Most girls are married by now.”

Arya doesn’t want to think about that. She’s four-and-ten, and she’s slowly driven away nearly every boy that’s been sent so far. There’s been nothing official, as of yet, just the lords “paying their respect to Lord Stark”, but Arya’s mother had told her the truth.

“Does she even like him?” Arya asks, almost angrily. “She never says, in her letters.”

Jon sighs, and ruffles her hair when he moves to put an arm around her. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?” Arya looks at him blankly, until he clarifies, “We’ve all been invited, Arya. We’re going to King’s Landing.”

 

* * *

 

When they do finally leave, nearly two moons later, Lady Cersei kisses Lord Stark in the courtyard, for all to see. Arya has never seen her mother kiss her father this way, not in public, but she supposes they have to kiss sometimes. Her mother breaks away and her whisper is carried to Arya on the wind.

“I wish you’d reconsider, Ned. There’s room enough.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Rickon…”

“Is a child, my love. I shall stay with him. Joanna will understand. And when you come back, you will bring Bran with you for a visit. Even your father cannot say no to that.”

Lady Cersei steps away, her mouth set in a line. Arya can see her mother’s displeasure, but she only sighs and calls at Theon to behave while they are gone.

“Come, Arya,” her mother says, briskly striding towards the gates and the wheelhouse. “It is time to go.”

Arya lets out a breath and follows. Jon waves to her from his horse, and it’s so _unfair_ that he and Robb get to be ahorse for this leg of the journey.

Mycella is already chattering on excitedly in the wheelhouse.

“Will we get new dresses, mother?” she hears Cella asks. Arya grunts and refuses to listen. She wants to stay in Winterfell.

Myrcella prattles on happily, oblivious to Arya's dark mood, and the light filtering from the curtain shifts. Soon, it is nearly dark.

“Arya,” her mother calls, once Myrcella is asleep in her lap, and Lady Lynesse is chatting away with Lady Alys. “Come here. I’ve a lesson for you.”

Arya comes dutifully, if a bit reluctantly. She wishes that she could be the Stark in Winterfell. Anything is better than leaving.

“A lesson?” she asks doubtfully. Her mother’s lessons largely consisted of long lectures about heraldry and family liasons and politics. Myrcella was fascinated with them, as Joanna had been each time she visited, and even Jon had listened intently on the occasions that he was included. It was one of the few times Arya and Robb had agreed on something, on how _boring_ lessons were.

“A lesson,” Lady Cersei repeats, and smiles at Arya. That smile makes her warm inside, and she notes, not for the first time, how beautiful her mother is. No one could mistake Arya for being beautiful. “It’s important, my little dove. Are you paying attention?”

“Aye,” Arya affirms under her breath, mimicking her brothers. And then corrects herself, because her mother has raised a brow. “I mean, yes. I’m paying attention.”

“King’s Landing,” her mother begins, then pauses to collect her thoughts. Her eyes cut through the dimness of the wheelhouse. “King’s Landing is a cesspit of thieves and liars.”

Arya had not expected that.

“I lived there for some time, as a girl. My father moved me between King’s Landing and Casterly Rock, hoping to catch King Aerys’s attention for his son Prince Rhaegar. Thank the gods that did not work,” Lady Cersei adds under her breath. “Everyone in that court is a liar.”

“But _Joanna_ is there.”

“Yes,” her mother muses, voice soft. “She is. My father would have insisted, even if Ned and I hadn’t agreed to this marriage. Joanna is a better liar than most, little dove. She’s learned not only at my knee, but at my father’s as well. I imagine his lessons were more than enough to teach her to play the game.”

“Game?” Arya repeats. “What game?”

Her mother’s eyes are cool when they meet hers, green like the wolfswood. “The only game there is, my little love. The game of thrones.”

Suddenly, Arya is aware of all the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. “It does not sound very fun,” she ventures, with a small laugh. “I’ve never heard of it, and you know I love games.”

“One does not play this game because it is _fun,_ Arya. Your sister will need you, in King’s Landing. She’s to be queen, so there are many eyes that watch her. You must be her eyes and ears while we are there. We must watch the queen, and the ladies that surround themselves around Joanna.”

“And you?” Arya says, suddenly aware of how dangerous this would be. “What shall you be doing?”

“The queen does not like me much,” Lady Cersei says, a bit tiredly. “I suppose I will have to work on that. It will not do if Joanna has a hard time because her mother in law cannot stand her mother.” She grabs Arya under the chin and forces her to meet her gaze. “Arya,” she begins, voice soft and deadly and serious. “I am serious. You cannot just run off, as you do. Your sister will need us. We must give her the tools she needs to keep her safe in that pit of vipers.”

Arya’s voice is slight and shaky when she answers, “I won’t. I’ll help, I swear it, Mother.”

Cersei nods, and releases Arya’s chin. She sinks against the cushions, and Arya pries open a curtain to see if she can still spot Winterfell. She can’t, and her heart starts to fall.

 

* * *

 

Bran is only eleven, but he is taller than her already. Arya writes him more than she does Joanna, mostly because his letters talk about sword fighting and learning to ride and the knights he might be squiring for soon. His hair had been a dark brown when he lived with them at Winterfell, but now that he’s lived at Casterly Rock for so long, it’s lighter, like dark honey, and shines in the sun. He even sits ahorse like Grandfather now, back straight and looking down his nose at people, and Arya’s not sure she likes it. At least, not until Bran swings down off his horse and embraces her.

“Arya!” he shouts, right in her ear. She could slug him for that, but finds herself pulling him closer. Oh, how she’s missed him. He pulls away and asks. “Where’s Cella?”

Arya jerks her chin towards the hill she’s just ridden over. She’s escaped her mother’s clutches for the day and gone out riding ahead with Jory and Jon and Ser Rodrick. “In a wheelhouse. It’s _bloody_ slow, it is. Oh, Bran you’re too tall now!”

He smiles down at her, the brat. “You’re just small, Arya.” He looks back at Grandfather, who’s gotten off his horse as well and exchanged a few words with Jon, who is starting to look uncomfortable. “My Lord?” he calls back. “May I ride to find Myrcella? It’s been too long since I’ve seen my twin.”

Their grandfather regards Bran and Arya, his eyes colder than Cersei’s. “Go on, but take Ser Addam and some of your mother’s men.”

Bran grins, squeezes Arya’s hand, and mounts his horse. Arya feels a pang of envy. It’s a beautiful creature. She’s been stuck with one of the extra horses from the procession.

“Grandfather,” she greets, and gives him her best curtsy. It’s less wobbly than it was. Her mother made her practice for _ages_ with a stack of books on her head. She’d moaned about it to Jon, but he’d just pointed out how good it made her balance now.

“Arya,” Lord Tywin inclines his head, approval for her dismal curtsy. “I assume your mother is with the wheelhouse as well?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she says. She remembers her mother’s words. _Be polite and courteous with my father, little dove. He respects clever girls with ambition, but only if they know how to hold their tongues._

“Snow,” he says, and Jon’s head whips up. Lord Tywin eyes Jon for a moment too long, his eyes unreadable. “My procession is a half-hour behind. Stay at this crossroads, make sure they know where I’ve gone.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jon says, and Arya shoots him a confused look. He refuses to meet it.

“Arya, child. Come along. It’s not proper for you to be riding about with only men, especially at your age. You’re fit to be married off now, you know, and it will not do for your virtue to be questioned.”

Arya fights the urge to snap at him, but holds her tongue. Her mother would be proud, indeed.

 

* * *

 

With the addition of the Lannister party, Arya is confined to the wheelhouse for the rest of the riding. With the Stark men, her mother knew them all, handpicked them herself, and trusted them in as much as she usually trusted guardsmen. The Lannister men were unknown, however, and she kept a tight leash on Arya’s wanderings. Jon had shared in her misery, but Robb had grinned and told her that they’d go riding as soon as they got to King’s Landing.

“Hawking too, if you’d like,” he added. “Seeing as you always want to join me and Jon hunting.”

She scowls and pushes him away, “That’s not _proper_ hunting,” she tells him.

Robb gets less cheerful and more anxious the further south they go. He’s not seen Joanna, his twin, in nearly three years, since her last visit to Winterfell, and Arya realizes how sorely he’s missed her. Once again, she feels a pang of loneliness, as she’d been, for a long time, the only Stark child without a twin until Rickon came along. But she and Jon were so close they might as well have been twins. Arya imagines what life would be like without Jon. It would be unbearable. He’s the only one that understands her.

There’s a larger fear looming in Arya’s mind as they approach King’s Landing.

Marriage.

She knows her father is serious about her getting married. He’s told her that he does not mind if she has suggestions. After all, he’d married Lady Cersei because he’d loved her, and he would be willing to allow Arya the same luxury, so long as the boy was from a good family and of noble stock.

“I am not my father,” Lord Stark had told her. “I won’t impose any Southron ambitions upon you. But you must be wed, Arya.”

And perhaps that is why he’d not allowed Arya to stay in Winterfell, she realizes with a sinking feeling. This was not just about Joanna. This was about her as well.

Arya asks her mother about it at dinner. They are at some fat lord’s keep for the night. “Did you bring me along so you could find me a match?” Arya demands, before her mother has even taken a bite of her meat. The fork freezes, halfway to Lady Cersei’s mouth.

She puts it down. Next to Arya, Myrcella quiets down, and Bran stuffs his mouth. Jon isn’t here. He’s often not at dinners like this, even when it’s only family.

Robb squeezes Arya’s hand under the table.

“I will not lie,” Cersei says, once she has dabbed at her mouth daintily. “That is a…factor of this visit, Arya.”

Arya’s chest squeezes. “No,” she says, her cheeks heating. “You and Father promised I could choose.”

“But you _haven’t_ ,” her mother says, gently. “Arya, we’re not going to ship you off to Dorne, you know. But I want you to see—to consider—some options.”

“You weren’t betrothed until you were seven and ten,” Arya argues.

“You will be seven and ten in three years’ time, Arya. And winter is coming.”

Arya leaves the table angry.

Jon finds her later, and soothes her. “It’s not as though she’s forcing you to someone,” he coos, smoothing her hair down. “She’s giving you a chance to look around and choose someone you like. That’s more than most highborn girls get, Arya.”

Arya turns her tear-filled face to his. “But I’m not most highborn girls, Jon. I don’t—” but how can she explain? The fear and anxiety that rise in her chest when she even _considers_ it, being chained down to someone for her whole life, bearing _children,_ having to listen to a husband, not being able to ride and fight and be _free_... Gods, what if her husband made her do _needlework_ all day? She’s have to listen, wouldn’t she? That’s what highborn girls did.

“Father listens to your mother,” Jon tells her softly, when she says so. “Not the other way around. Perhaps you will find a husband who will do the same.”

An impossible dream. Arya allows Jon to escort her back to her chambers, and hugs him tightly to her when they part.

“Jon,” she whispers, even though no one but Jory is in the hall with them, out of earshot. “If my husband is cruel, do you promise you’ll come get me? No matter what?”

Her brother’s eyes blaze. “No matter what, little sister,” he tells her, his voice sure. “But I think you’ll get to him first, if he’s cruel. And Lady Stark would never allow for you to marry a cruel man.”

Arya knows that. Sometimes, though, she needs a reminder.

 

* * *

 

King’s Landing is a smelly, crowded city. Arya’s mother wears a green gown on their first day, but dresses Arya and Myrcella in light gossamer blue. “It’s too hot for your wools,” Lady Cersei tells them, and for once, Arya is glad she didn’t protest. The heat is stifling, and it makes Arya feel dirty. She longs for the crisp bite of Northern air, but does not say so. Her mother would just give her that _look_ of hers, and tell her to be patient.

“And now it begins,” Arya hears her mother mutter under her breath as they ride up to the Red Keep.

The royal family has come to greet them, flanked by Lord Arryn, and Arya catches sight of the white cloaks of the Kingsguard knights fluttering in the slight breeze off the sea. Steffon and Orys and Jocelyn Baratheon look much bigger than she remembers, although Arya supposes that does happen when children grow up. Robert Baratheon looks fatter, Queen Catelyn pale and beautiful in the morning heat, and between them all…

Joanna.

Arya notes that her sister is as beautiful as ever, with her long golden hair tied away from her sweet face, her smiling green eyes. Suddenly, Arya's light gown feels drab in comparison. But when Joanna embraces her, it is with a squeeze of gratitude.

“Finally,” she whispers, and when she pulls away, Arya sees true happiness in her sister’s eyes. “I’ve missed you all so much, Arya. It’s good to see you.”

Joanna does not hug Jon in public. Arya sees how much she wants to, but it isn’t proper. Instead, she clutches at Robb’s shoulders a moment too long.

When they are all done hugging and greeting one another, Prince Steffon comes down the steps and holds his arm out to Joanna. Joanna takes it lightly, smiling up at him. Arya knows that look. She sees her mother give it to her father all the time, when no one else is looking. But they are looking now, and it is clear Joanna has learned this look as well, because it looks a bit too practiced to be true.

Not for the first time, Arya wonders if Joanna truly wants to marry Steffon.

 

* * *

 

“Of course I _want_ to marry Steffon,” Joanna whispers, then shifts. “Arya, you’re too bloody _warm_.”

Arya rolls away, and shoots back, “So take off the furs, _my lady_.” It’s been years since they’ve shared a bed, but Arya’s secretly pleased Joanna asked her to join her tonight.

“He’s nice to me,” Joanna continues, ignoring Arya’s jabs. “And I’ll be queen one day.”

“You didn’t look so happy outside,” Arya says.

Joanna’s eyes had been on the ceiling, but at this, they snap to Arya. “I didn’t?” she asks. “Why not?”

Arya huffs out a laugh, “What, you need me to _tell_ you why you didn’t look happy?”

Joanna nods, face serious. “Was it my face? I’ve been working on keeping it still.”

“You—” Arya bites her lip, thinking. She kicks at the furs again, to let some air reach her warm body. “You looked a bit…practiced. I’m not sure anyone else could tell.”

Joanna’s eyes flutter almost imperceptibly. She sighs. “That would be it,” she says. “I was uncomfortable with all the people there. I _have_ to be affectionate in front of them, you see. In front of the queen and king too.”

“Do you like it here?” Arya asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“A bit,” Joanna says, and her eyes begin to close. “But it’s tiring, you know. Being the Prince’s betrothed. The ladies are always trying to curry favor, since I’m to be the queen one day, and then the mother of a king. It’s hard to separate them from my true friends at court.”

Joanna’s voice is sleepy, and it’s not long before she drifts off. But Arya is too jumpy, too _awake_ to fall asleep. Instead, she lies in bed with her eyes open, thinking.

The next day, Arya is yawning when she gets to her grandfather’s solar to break her fast, and nearly runs into Robb. He is grinning, and his face is flushed.

“What are you smiling about?” Arya grumbles. Robb laughs, almost embarrassed.

“Nothing,” he says, but from behind him, Arya hears Jon’s voice.

“Liar,” Jon accuses. He ruffles Arya’s hair, and she scowls at him. “It’s the Southron girls that have him flustered like a maiden, little sister. They wear much less here in the south.”

Arya scrunches up her nose. “Where did you go?”

Robb is nearly red now. “Nowhere,” he mutters. “Some women were bathing in the courtyard below. I saw them out my window.”

Jon laughs and throws an arm around Robb’s shoulders. “Well, maybe it is you that should be looking for a bride during our visit, instead of Arya’s search for a husband.”

With anyone else, Arya would have snapped at them. With Jon, she laughs.

Jon drops his arm and pushes Robb to the door. “Go break your fast,” he says. “I’m sure Lord Tywin is waiting.” When Robb is gone, Jon turns to Arya. “I’m going to be eating with the guardsmen,” he announces. “But I wanted to speak with Joanna before I did. We did not get a chance yesterday.”

Arya frowns, “She and mother are having a separate meal,” she says. “With the queen.”

Jon’s shoulders don’t fall, exactly, but disappointment is written in the lines of his body. “You’d think,” he says, almost conversationally, betraying how upset he actually is, “that I’d be able to spend a moment of the day with my half sister that I haven’t seen in years. I suppose that now that she’s to be a queen, she has less time.” _For her bastard brother_ goes unsaid.

“She’d want to spend time with you,” Arya says. “I’m sure she’ll make time.”

Jon’s face is blank, rigidly so. “Have a good morning,” he says, then squeezes her hand, apologizing for his bad mood.

“Jon?” Robb says, coming out of the solar just as Jon turns to leave. Robb’s face is puzzled, his movements unsure. “Lord Tywin says you should join us. To break your fast. He insists, actually.”

For a moment, Arya doesn’t understand. Her grandfather respects power and blood and the family name, and the only thing Jon’s got of that is Ned Stark’s blood.

Jon frowns, “It—It’s not proper for me to impose myself on your grandfather,” Jon says, his voice low.

Robb pulls at Jon’s wrist, and then at Arya’s. “Come on,” he hisses. “It’s not _proper_ to keep him waiting either.”

 

* * *

 

Arya supposes it’s Grandfather’s insistence in Jon joining them that sets her suspicious nature off. No one has ever shown interest in Jon. Even her mother sometimes ignored him, especially when others were around. It’s never for more than a moment, but Tywin Lannister’s eyes follow Jon around like he’s _looking_ for something, and it makes Arya suspicious because…well, _she_ can barely keep his attention. Jon is quiet, and her grandfather does not try to engage him during the breakfast, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, knows that he knows how strange this is. And Arya is almost willing to put it out of her mind when her mother comments on Lord Tywin's interest.

“I heard that my father invited Jon to this morning’s meal,” Cersei mentions, when it is just her and Arya, walking in the gardens later. “What did he say?”

“Nothing, mother,” Arya answers. Feigning ignorance, she adds, “It was odd. Why would he invite Jon in? He doesn’t even _know_ Jon.”

Arya’s mother stops, and smells a rose. To anyone else, it would look like a pleasant stroll in the gardens with her daughter, but here is one of the few places Cersei says they are not heard. Watched, perhaps. But the birds chirp so loudly and the bushes are far apart and too thick for anyone to hide in.

“My father…” her mother trails off. “He takes interest in certain things. I shall tell Jon to stay away from him.” Softer, Cersei says, “I should not have brought him here, but he wanted to see Joanna married, and Ned agreed.”

Arya nods, and tries to itch her neckline discreetly. It’s bloody _hot,_ it is, and she’s tired of dressing like a lady. In Winterfell, she would have already gotten into her linens and raced Myrcella and Rickon to the Godswood, splashed around in the pools. Arya can see it so _clearly_ and the pain in her chest is sudden and hot.

“Have you met Trystane Martell yet?” Cersei inquires, “Or Renly Baratheon? Renly is a bit old, and isn’t quite interested in a betrothal, but Robert has expressed his interest in a match.”

“Renly likes boys,” Arya says. “I heard the maids talking about him and Ser Loras. And Trystane likes Myrcella more than me.”

Cersei’s brows raise. “Cella’s only eleven. I hope you’re not allowing them to be alone together.”

Arya huffs, and feels the knot of her hair wilting, slip down her neck. “Robb’s always with us, Mother.”

“And how is your sister?” Cersei asks.

“You saw her this morning.”

Her mother waits patiently. Arya sighs. “She doesn’t know who she can trust. The queen watches her. It makes her uncomfortable.”

Cersei sighs. There is a quiet moment in which Arya thinks she will say nothing more, but let the space between them fill with chirping and the rustling of leaves. But then her mother breaks the silence. “I wish…” she begins, her voice soft on the wind, “I wish your father had come. The court, that I know how to handle. My father, I know how to handle. But both at once…” It is one of the few times when Arya sees her mother look unsure of how to finish.

“Mother?” Arya says, when it is apparent Cersei will say nothing more. “What is it? You can tell me.”

But Cersei turns away, gives a delicate cough, and says, loud enough for the guards behind them to hear, “We must go look at Joanna’s wedding dress. Come, Arya.”

 

* * *

 

The King comes back from his pre-wedding hunting trip laughing, arms around Steffon and Orys. They’ve speared a great boar, and few people notice that the King’s arms around his sons are not only out of pride, but for support. His breeches are black, and few notice the way the leather glistens red in the light. It’s only later that the king allows the palace physician to see to the long cut he’s acquired on his right leg, only then that the rumors begin to fly.

 

* * *

 

The Queen is nothing but courteous to Arya, but there’s something in her eyes that makes Arya’s skin cold. More than once, she’s called Jocelyn away from Arya, tried to keep her daughter close when the Starks are around. Arya supposes that Prince Orys makes up for it, with his loud laughs and mischievous eyes. Joanna tells her, quietly in her chambers that night, that she thinks Orys fancies Arya. Arya swats her sister away and tells her to shut her mouth.

The only Baratheon Arya spends much time with is Steffon, because he is always bringing Joanna flowers, always praising her looks, taking her for turns through the garden. He’s only reached five-and-ten a moon ago, but he’s taller than Robb, broad like his father. She’s never seen Joanna this attentive, this _girlish_. When Arya remarks on it, Joanna laughs, clear like a bell, and tells her, “You have to start training them at some point, dearest sister.”

Arya doesn’t want to _train_ her husband, and says so. Joanna’s eyes sober, and she lowers her voice. “Well, sister dear, you don’t have to undo all the impressively thorough work of the Queen Mother, do you?” She keeps her tone light, and over Lady Alys's giggling and Jeyne Poole's chatter, only Arya can hear the bitterness.

As they speak, Arya spots the Queen’s guards standing along the Stark guards. The Queen and their mother are taking a walk through the rose garden, and to anyone else’s eyes, Cersei Stark would look serene and untouched. To Arya’s eyes, however, she sees the flash of anger in her Cersei's eyes. Arya is certain the Queen has just insulted her mother.

Slowly, the queen cuts a rose from the bush, and then the procession moves onward.

Later that day, Arya spies Lord Arryn looking questioningly at her walking with Jon Snow. His gaze lingers, almost disapprovingly, before he hurries off to sit by the King’s side.

 

* * *

 

When Arya can no longer stand the oppressive heat and the _stupid_ politics of the Red Keep and the gods-damned game of thrones, she tears off her gown and slips into a tunic and a pair of breeches she’s filched from Bran’s room. He’s too tall, but Arya rolls up the ends of the legs until she can walk comfortably. For the first time since she’s entered this hellhole, Arya feels free, spends hours exploring and sifting through tunnels and under the archways of the city, knowing that Myrcella will tell anyone who asks that she’s ill. With her hair tucked up under her cap, Arya could be anyone, and so she throws away her courtesies, gets down in the mud along with the urchins of King’s Landing, and laughs and plays among them. She feels a child again. She _is_ a child.

It’s nearly suppertime, and Arya is on her way back to the Red Keep when she spies two Red Cloaks looking at her. She sees the moment realization dawns, that under the cap, she's no boy.

“You!” The Red Cloak says. “Stop there!”

Arya is frozen. Her mother will murder her if she’s found this way. Her mother had _warned_ her not to go off on her own.

Suddenly, a hand clamps on Arya’s arm, and jerks her hard, so hard that she’s stunned into running just to keep up. “Come on!” A voice says, and Arya feels her legs work, feels the stone beneath her feet as she outruns the knights weighed down by armor and a heavy cloak.

When they’ve lost the Red Cloaks, Arya wrenches her arm free. She doesn’t know where she is. The streets she’d been dragged through might as well be a maze, for all she knows.

“Who are you?” She demands, when she’s gotten some breath back. He’s _big,_ by the gods, but not panting nearly as hard as she is.

“I should be asking _you_ that. Did you think no one would notice you’re not a boy?”

Arya backs away, slowly. She needs to get back to the main road, back to the Red Keep. Here, she can’t see above the slums, can’t see where the walls are. The light is fading, and Arya can feel dread building in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m not pretending to be a boy,” she tells him. “I just look this way sometimes. Where did you bring me?”

“What?” The big man says, and straightens. He's can't be older than her own brothers, Arya sees, but gods, he’s built like a bull. “No thank you for me? I did just save your arse.”

Arya decides that, just this once, she’ll be courteous. She’s afraid of this man-boy, who is too large for her to fight off. She hasn’t a sword, she hasn’t her brothers here to protect her. All Arya has is herself, and the courtesies her mother has drilled into her. “Thank you,” she says, stiffly. “I’m Arry. Who’re you?”

“Gendry,” he says, and leans against the wall of the alley he’s pulled her into. “And I brought you to my forge. Well, not mine. But I’m an apprentice here.”

“Which way to the Red Keep?” Arya asks, and grimaces. She’s said too much.

Gendry just laughs. “Why? Are you a lady of some sort?” He sounds disbelieving.

At that, Arya grins. Her heart is slowing, and in the darkening light, she can see him smiling too, the smile of a partner in crime, the smile of two people who’ve just gotten away with something they shouldn’t have.

“No,” she lies, laughing as if that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. She has to catch her breath. “I’m no lady, not unless you’ve got a lordship tucked under that belt o’ yours.”

 

* * *

 

Arya’s mother shimmers with rigid fury that night, but it’s not directed at Arya. It’s directed at the queen. Her mother is so motionless, it’s as if she is willing the cold anger out and past several walls of stone to strangle Queen Catelyn in her sleep.

Her mother’s anger is like a caged beast. It is still until it erupts, and there is very little that can be done to capture it after. Now, though, her rage is of a silent sort. Lord Tywin is unmoving as well, but Arya cannot feel any emotion from him. And Joanna will not meet any of their eyes. Arya is aware that the four of them make for a strange tableau, sitting so quietly, barely moving, but the surface humming with agitation. It's as if a still pond has been disturbed, and the ripples grow with every passing moment.

“Why did you not say she was treating you this way?” She asks Joanna, her voice strained. Lord Tywin sits in the corner, and watches the exchange through alert eyes.

“What way?” Joanna questions, her eyes on her embroidery. Arya puts her needle down, thankful for the distraction.

“Having guards follow you, switching your ladies for hers, having spies watch your every move. She’s reading your _letters_ , Joanna! I could forgive it if she were subtle about it, but there is nothing subtle about Catelyn Baratheon. Today, she implied that you were anxious to be wed because you’re a wanton, base creature. In front of her ladies in waiting, and half the court!”

Joanna does not fidget, and her back is perfectly straight when she looks up to meet her mother’s eyes. To Arya, she looks like a queen. “She believes I am not as virtuous as I claim to be.”

“You _claim_ to be?” Lord Tywin repeats, sounding almost as though he were commenting on the weather. “Do you claim to be virtuous?”

“Not in so many words, Grandfather,” Joanna says, her eyes never leaving Cersei’s. “But it seems that Queen Catelyn believes that Lannister women have a habit of breaking betrothals, despite the fact that I am, in fact, a Stark.”

Cersei scoffs, an angry sound. Arya wants to reach for Joanna, but watches instead.

“She is not a stupid woman,” Cersei says finally, her eyes still ablaze. She starts to pace, and Arya can see a lion under the surface of her skin, itching to get out. “But if she still believes that after eighteen years it’s _me_ who broke a betrothal that was never in place, she’s more foolish than I thought possible.”

“And pious,” Lord Tywin adds. “Your children, save Brandon, were all brought up in the ways of the old gods, a superstitious and animal-worshiping lot. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought none of your girls are maids.”

Arya feels a stab of offense. She doesn’t worship _animals_.

“She _knows_ I am,” Joanna says, and then looks up in alarm. This time, it is Lord Tywin, and not their mother, that leans forward.

“Explain yourself, Joanna,” he commands. Joanna’s fists clench her skirts.

“She had…” Joanna trails off, her voice tight. Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes, tears of frustration not unlike Arya’s when she cannot find the words to get what she wants.

Lord Tywin reaches for Joanna’s hand, and says, “It’s all right, child. Tell us.”

Arya’s mother looks frozen, and it is not Joanna who speaks next. “She had a septon examine you.” Cersei swallows, and kneels by Joanna’s feet. Arya has never seen her mother kneel. “Joanna, did she?”

“The high septon,” Joanna whispers. “It’s lucky I didn’t take to riding like a Northwoman like Arya did, Mother. Your daughter is still a maiden, at least in the eyes of the Seven.”

Cersei’s eyes are filled with tears when she cups Joanna’s cheek. “Oh, my love. Why did you not tell me? The queen has been mistreating you? Joanna, my dove—”

“There was nothing to be done,” Joanna says, and Arya’s heart breaks for her sister, the pain in her voice.

To her surprise yet again, it is Lord Tywin who reacts first, standing, his chair scraping behind him. “Cersei, I like this not,” he says. “Joanna’s wedding is soon, but you must send the rest of your children back to Winterfell. Now that the King is ill…”

“What are you talking about?” Cersei hisses, and she is on her feet in a moment, straightening her gown. “The King will be fine. The King…”

“Is dying,” Tywin says, voice low. “He has an infection. That hunting sore on his leg has festered. It’s why he hasn’t been in court the past few days.”

There is silence, as they all contemplate what his illness means. Arya knows that her father's friendship with the king is what keeps the Starks in good graces. Without him...

“We can’t just run,” Joanna says, and now she rises to her feet. “I’m to be queen, Grandfather. If the King is truly dying, then Queen Catelyn can do nothing. Steffon will be king.”

“Not regent, though, until he reaches his majority in a year,” Lord Tywin interrupts. “He’s only just turned fifteen. His mother will become Queen Regent. The papers have already been signed. That is one year in which she may ruin all we have planned for.”

“Planned?” Arya parrots, her first words in this conversation. “What have you planned?”

Cersei turns to Arya, and smooths her hair down, “Nothing, my love. But this is troubling. We must pray for the King’s continued health.”

Lord Tywin leans in closer to Cersei, and drops his voice. “These walls have ears, Cersei, but I tell you this now: send your children North. Tell the Queen their father has recalled them, that it seems that storms are coming and may hinder their journey home, that they have to leave _now._ I don’t bloody well care what excuse you make up, but get them back North. When the wedding is over, we’ll take Brandon and retreat back to the Rock, and let things calm.”

“You really think she will allow that?” Cersei says, eyes blazing like a green fire. “Just to pack away all my children on a boat back to Winterfell with a flimsy explanation?”

“Mother,” Arya says, “I want to stay. I want to stay with Joanna.” Joanna’s hand finds Arya’s and squeezes.

Cersei does not look at Arya. Instead, she lowers her voice. “Are you sure he’s dying? Is it that dire?”

Lord Tywin meets her burning gaze and says one word.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

Robb is so angry that he won’t even speak to Arya when they load the ship. “My sister’s wedding,” he’d hissed the night before, “my own _twin_ sister’s wedding, and I’m not even allowed to attend.”

“Robb,” Arya tries to say, but her brother turns away. He won’t even talk to Jon, who begs him to not be angry. Little Myrcella hugs Bran tightly, but she’s not too upset. Arya can tell her sister has missed Winterfell and Father, and even little Rickon as well.

“We can’t very well send them all back,” Cersei had said. “But Robb is the heir. If anything does go wrong, he will be at Winterfell. And he will take care of Myrcella until they get to White Harbor.”

“And the rest of us?” Arya had asked, whispering in the dark. Only one candle lit between them, her mother’s face was thrown into shadow. But still, Arya could see the sadness there.

“We will leave immediately after the wedding. Jon Snow is a part of the household, so there’s little danger for him here, and he will be my escort back to Winterfell after the wedding. You’re to stay at Casterly Rock with Bran, where you’ll learn more about this game from my father.”

At the port, Arya’s mind flashes back to that. _This game._ The game of thrones.

Robb only relents when their mother folds him into her embrace. Suddenly, he doesn’t look like a sulky boy, but a man. “I know,” he whispers, burying his face in their mother's golden curls, just loud enough for Arya to hear. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

That night, they are called for a private meal in Queen Catelyn’s chambers. The food is delicious and hot, but Arya has no appetite. Joanna has Steffon to keep her occupied, so Arya is listening in on her mother’s conversation with the queen when she hears it.

“You sent your eldest back to White Harbor today?” The Queen says mildly, as if it were of no importance to her.

Arya’s mother takes a sip of wine and lowers the glass. “Yes, Your Grace. He was behaving in a way that was unbecoming of the future lord of Winterfell. In the North, you see, there aren’t so many…temptations, I suppose. It is a drastic measure, but boys must be taken in hand when they’re still young. And Lord Stark has always kept a stern hand on Robb.”

Absurdly, Arya wants to laugh. It is no secret in Winterfell that Robb has an eye for women, but the Northern honor their father has drilled into him has kept him from dishonoring himself. Arya has wondered about that, though. It’s not as if her father didn’t have a mark of dishonor. Jon was, after all, a bastard. Maybe their half-brother was warning enough for Robb, though, because he had once sworn loudly (and drunkenly) that he would never touch a woman before the marriage bed.

“And your Myrcella?”

Cersei’s hand goes to her goblet once more, and she lifts it to her lips. “A measure of security, Your Grace. If Robb is watching over Myrcella, he will have no time to himself, no time in which he could chase his own whims.”

Arya thinks the Queen doesn't believe them. Her eyes glimmer in the firelight. They’re blue, the most beautiful blue Arya’s ever seen, but they are only cold when they sweep past her. “I see,” the Queen says, and that is the end of that.

 

* * *

 

“We have blue roses where I’m from,” Arya tells Gendry. “They’re beautiful, and they grow in the coldest of weather. But you don’t have them here.”

Gendry wipes his brow and scowls at her. He’s bent over the forge, his arms straining. “We’ve got better than blue here. We’ve got red, orange, pink, white. Stop complaining and hand me that hammer.”

Arya hands it over. “I’m not _complaining,_ ” she insists. “I just…I miss home.”

“The Starks are going North after the wedding, ain’t they?” Gendry huffs, and the air fills with the sound of metals colliding. “You’re going back with them.”

“I’m _not,”_ Arya says miserably. She’s going to _Casterly Rock_. She wants to scream.

“Oh,” Gendry says, and he looks nearly pleased. The moment passes, though, and he wipes his brow again. “Hand me that bit, Arry,” he tells her. She does. Out of the corner of her eyes, Arya can feel him watching her, but she doesn’t look at him. Sometimes—but only once in a while—Arya likes being watched. It’s the first time a boy’s looked at her this way without knowing that she’s a lady, without wanting to marry into Winterfell. “Well,” he says haltingly. “If you’re not going after—I mean, maybe we—maybe we can spend some more time together.”

Dumbly, Arya stares at him. Finally, she opens her mouth. “We already spend time together, you big bull.”

It’s probably the heat of the forge, but Arya swears she can see red creeping up his neck. “You know what I mean,” he says, voice tight.

“I don’t,” Arya insists stubbornly. She can’t look at him. She can’t look at that slow creep of red making it’s way to his ears. She was wrong. Catelyn Baratheon’s blue eyes have nothing on Gendry’s when he looks at her like that.

She hears a _clang_ , and she knows he’s putting down his tools. There’s a breeze from the open door, but Arya’s stifled, she can’t breathe—

His lips touch the edge of Arya’s mouth. “Spend time like this,” he murmurs against her skin.

Arya doesn’t even think, she just turns her face to his and kisses him back. It’s not like kissing someone’s face, she finds. It’s wetter, and his cheeks are scratchy, and his breath is hot on her chin. But it’s _Gendry_ and—

Arya’s face is burning when she pulls it away. “I—” she says eloquently. And then she is running out of the forge and into the warm night air.

 

* * *

 

Arya is woken to the sound of bells. They’re so loud she can feel them through her bed, in her bones. Jon is in her room, shaking her.

“The King is dead,” he tells her, his voice barely loud enough for her to hear over the ringing. There’s barely any light outside.

“Long live King Steffon,” Arya answers automatically, before she understands what has happened. “Wait, when did this happen?”

“Last night. They say the Hand’s going to be hung today,” Jon says, and starts pulling Arya’s clothes from her trunk. “Get dressed. We have to go.”

Arya pulls her cloak from his hands. “ _What is happening?_ ” She hisses. “Jon, what’s wrong?”

Jon’s eyes are red, and he looks older than seven-and-ten. “Jon Arryn’s been arrested, and they’re holding your mother in her rooms,” he says. “We have to _run_ , before they close the docks. Bran and your grandfather are waiting by the ship.”

Arya dresses automatically, in her stolen breeches and shirt. “Jon Arryn?” She manages. “Why?”

“The Queen says he was plotting to give the throne back to the Targaryens,” Jon answers, and throws Arya her boots. She laces them fast, but her fingers fumble.

“Targaryens?” Arya repeats. “That’s _mad,_ Lord Arryn fought the Targaryens. Why won’t she let Mother out?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “I’m to get you to the ship, then come back for her.”

“And Joanna?” Arya insists, pulling at the ties of her cloak. It’s too hot for it, but she pulls it on. Jon is rummaging in her trunk, pulls up a bag of coins. He hands it over.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, voice tight. “Gods, Arya. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Before she knows it, Arya is clutching at Jon, and they are both holding on. She can hear his shaky breath, and then he says, “Come on. We have to go.”

When they pass the entryway to the guardroom, Arya’s stomach roils. Inside, she can see the dead men of Winterfell.

“Gods,” she whispers. “Jon, they’re all dead.”

He nods and pulls her. He’s already seen it, Arya realizes. That’s why his eyes are red. He’s already seen it. For the first time, Arya notices the blood on Jon’s sword hand, the blood on the hilt of his sword. With a sickly start, she realizes that Jon had been staying in the guardroom.

He pulls a tapestry to the side and shoves Arya into the alcove behind. It's cramped, and too hot once they've both squeezed in, but Jon just holds her hand and says, "We'll hide here until it's safe to leave."

It’s nearly noon when Arya and Jon, still hand in hand, finally can leave the keep, smuggled under a cart of bread. Just in time, too, because she can hear guard as they turn the corner.

Arya pulls to a stop once they’re in the familiar streets of King's Landing. She can see a crowd on the hill before the Great Sept of Baelor, and the royal procession. Suddenly, she knows that Jon Arryn is going to be beheaded soon, and they’re never going to have another chance like this. “Jon,” she says insistently. “We have to get my mother and Joanna. Please, please, before they realize we’re all gone. We won’t have a chance later.”

“Arya,” he begins. “I’m to go back for them once you’re safe. Lord Tywin—”

“Isn’t here!” Arya cries, and she’s shaking. “We _have to_ , Jon, they’ll _die_. The Queen is mad!”

Jon’s face hardens. “I’ll go back,” he says. “But you need to get to the boat. Do you think you can manage?”

_No,_ Arya thinks. Her head is spinning. But she nods. “Go get them,” she begs. “Please.”

Jon kisses her forehead. “It’s called _Lady’s Laughter_ ,” he tells her. “Go. Before they close the docks.”

But Arya doesn’t go. She makes for the sept. As she gets closer, she sees it even more clearly; Joanna’s litter is there. Standing, white-faced, on the steps of the sept, is her sister.

“Joanna—” Arya starts, her weak shout swallowed by the crowd. “JOANNA!”

But there are too many people between the two of them. Arya struggles and scratches and shoves, but she is no closer to her sister when the Queen steps out and holds her hand for silence.

The Queen is beautiful in the light, her hair braided and running down her back in red waves. Even the lines of her face seem to disappear, and she looks like a statue of the Mother reborn. But Arya sees it--the empty calculation of her face. Her children stand behind her, and Steffon’s arm is around Joanna. Suddenly, Arya is struck with an awful fear. She can’t see Jon Arryn. Are they—will they—

She can’t breathe.

But it is not her sister that the Queen calls forward. It is Lord Arryn. He is shoved down so hard, Arya can hear his knees hit the marble with a _crack_.

Arya starts to shove her way through the crowd. She doesn’t care what happens. She needs to get to Joanna.

“Lord Arryn is guilty,” she hears the Queen say. “He conspired with traitors to bring the Targaryen _spawn_ back to Westeros and throw down my own child, your King.”

Joanna is so bloody _far_.

Prince Steffon’s voice comes over the crowd. “Lord Arryn is guilty of treason. He is henceforth stripped of his title as Hand of the King, given now to my uncle Brynden Tully.”

If only Joanna would look up, she would _see_ Arya and not just stand there uselessly. Arya grits her teeth.

“Lord Arryn has served the realm ably for nearly twenty years,” she hears Prince Steffon continue. “He was like a second father to me. Although his crimes are heinous and his sentencing heavy on my heart, it is in dark times like these that we must show mercy.”

And that is when it all goes to hell.

If Arya were listening, she would hear the Queen say, “Bring me his head.” But she isn’t. She is looking at Joanna. All Arya sees is Joanna’s blanched expression, her body swaying, and her eyes rolling into her head, Steffon barely catching her as she falls. All Arya hears is her own scream.

Suddenly, the crowd of spectators has become a mob, and Arya can’t breathe, she can’t move, she can’t—

Strong arms rip her away from the crowd. “Don’t look,” a voice says in her ear. “Arry, let’s go, don’t look!”

 

* * *

 

"Jon," Bran says, and touches Jon’s sleeve. “You have to come below deck now. Grandfather told me that you can’t be seen.”

Jon can’t tear his eyes away from the retreating shore. He failed. He can’t look away.

Lady Cersei speaks from Jon’s other side. “I’ll bring him down in a moment, Bran. Go below. We’ll be there soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, still unable to look Lady Cersei in the eyes. “I thought she would be safe…I thought she would make her way here.”

Lady Cersei’s voice is full of promise when she says, “You shouldn’t be sorry. The Queen should be. And she will feel my wrath.”

“But Arya…”

Lady Cersei is quiet, and it takes Jon a moment to realize she’s stifling a sob.

“She’s alive,” she says. He can hear the anguish in her voice. “She’s alive.”

“The Queen is mad!” Jon explodes, and pounds his fist into the railing. He killed his first man with this hand today, and the blood is still under his nails. “Gods, saying that we’re conspiring with _Targaryens_ , of all people!”

There is a moment of tense silence.

“Jon—” Lady Cersei says. He can hear it in her voice. Jon can’t look at her, he can’t see the lies writ out. “She’s not mad,” she finishes finally. “We were…Gods, Lord Arryn had nothing to do with any of this. He confronted me about it, but…”

Jon clenches his fist, but says nothing. He doesn’t want to hear it. He wants his sisters back. He wants to do nothing else in life but stare at the ocean.

“Jon,” Lady Cersei tries.

“No,” he whispers, but it’s taken out of his mouth and floats away on the wind.

“You’re not a Stark,” she tells him. She shatters his world with those words. “You’re not a Snow. You are the rightful king of these Seven Kingdoms.”

**Author's Note:**

> So! This was hard to write! I reached the midway point of the fic and hit a block. Sorry to keep you guys waiting!
> 
> In a series like this, with small changes from The Lonely Heart that make huge differences in this story, it's really hard to keep track, so I'd like to thank my friend Mia for reading everything over.
> 
> The next part of this series will be dealing with the alternate version of the war of the five kings, but with it's going to be the war of the three queens!
> 
> Please read and review! Your reviews and feedback on the previous stories were such a huge motivation, and I plowed through my writer's block because I knew I had to get this story out for the people who loved it enough to comment and tell me to hurry up.


End file.
